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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29799156">flooded with flowers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlife/pseuds/madlife'>madlife</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:21:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,772</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29799156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlife/pseuds/madlife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>florist!mark tattoo artist!donghyuck</p><p>With gloved hands, Donghyuck has been squeezing green soap from a squirt bottle onto a paper towel. He is slouching on a rolling stool, causing the arm hole on his black muscle tee to slit even wider.</p><p>Mark looks away. He shifts on the tattoo chair.</p><p> </p><p>(Mark swears his feelings for the tattoo artist next door is not that serious. But the flowers say otherwise!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>339</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>flooded with flowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>INSPIRED BY THIS <a href="https://twitter.com/rawraau/status/1306818206133182464?s=19">LOVELY ART</a> </p><p>ILY RAAU *mark voice* this is for you!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wisteria. Wisteria-colored hair. Strands glistering against the morning sunlight. Cherry blossom lips. A small silver hoop earring glints. Favorite leather jacket. Floral saddle bag; painted on its skin are periwinkles with skinny stems and leaves the color of key lime and peach. Distressed jeans, torn across the thighs, ripped too high and too wide, tattoo peeking. Donghyuck looks like he belongs with the delphiniums and the hyacinths. And he's just simply standing there, outside, in front of the flower shop, newly dyed hair. Yesterday it was brown. Today, purple. Like wisterias. From inside of the shop, Mark is frozen over a floral arrangement he has just placed on one of the white display cubes, hands cupping the milk-white bowl vase. He stares over splayed sweet almond branches and silver dollar eucalyptuses reaching out to all directions, sweet peas and baby cosmos light in the air, and over the arrangement's focal bloom, white camellias. Mark stares through the glass window and his own faint reflection.</p><p> </p><p>It takes Mark a few breathless seconds before he notices Donghyuck moving a hand. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck holds a finger gun under his chin. And then he winks. </p><p> </p><p>Mark scoffs, stepping away from the arrangement. He sucks his lips into his mouth, sinks his shaking head down, and rakes his bangs. Bangs like sunrays over his eyes, Donghyuck has said once. Mark had his hair bleached two weeks ago. When Donghyuck first saw his blonde hair while walking past the shop, he did a double take then poked his head into the door just to say: "Wah! Mark hyung! You're really a flower boy now, huh? Are you a daffodil? Marigold? Sunflower? Forsee—Forsee—Four seasons?" </p><p> </p><p>"Forsythia!" Mark corrected after a spurt of laughter.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. That." </p><p> </p><p>Now Mark is shifting on his feet. He pats the crown of his head once, twice, and when he looks up, Donghyuck is smiling amusedly at him. Mark pins his lips tight, one corner struggling to hold the smile in. He averts his gaze. His palm naturally makes its way against the pouch of his apron the color forget-me-nots, where he keeps Donghyuck's sketches of daffodils and marigolds, sunflowers and forsythias. Donghyuck gave him one sketch a day last week.</p><p> </p><p>Mark glimpses up. Donghyuck's hair wings with the gust of wind, and then the strands waterfall over him. Like wisteria vines cascading over a pergola. Wisteria. Drunk in love. Mark is not in love, though. Donghyuck is not in love either, Mark thinks. It's just the language of flowers. The language of wisteria. Drunk in love. And Donghyuck's hair is the color of wisteria. Drunk in love. Donghyuck gestures to his right, to the tattoo studio next door where he works as an artist. Mark nods and shoos him away. But instead of waving a see you later, Donghyuck wrinkles his eyebrows and rounds his lips and raises his fingertips over his mouth. </p><p> </p><p>Mark mouths, "What? What?"</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck's expression quickly softens. He puckers his lips, a smack on his fingertips, then he puffs an air kiss towards Mark. And Mark is not able to process what just happened. Before he knows it, before he can react, Donghyuck is already strutting away. </p><p> </p><p>Mark blinks. The couple who owns the bakery café across greet him as they open their business for the day. The sunlit street reflects off the café's window, the electric pole, the flower shop's facade. Mark barely sees the dried sea lavenders hanging over the café's bar table. Sea lavenders for eternal love. When Mark finally manages a bow, the couple has already turned their backs.  </p><p> </p><p>"Whoa, that's a lot."</p><p> </p><p>Mark turns upon hearing Johnny's voice.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny is between the arched doorway to the backroom, drawing the white curtain. Gaping at Mark, he steps forward, crosses his arms over the chest of his apron, and stops right in the middle of the counter and the floral cooler. </p><p> </p><p>Johnny says, "Dude. It's been awhile since you last…sprouted flowers?" </p><p> </p><p>"Wait what? I did?" </p><p> </p><p>Mark looks down. </p><p> </p><p>A ring of ranunculus has sprung up around him, from the shop's vinyl wood flooring. No foliage. Only the pliable stems standing about fourteen inches tall. White blooms, lustrous and flushed with pink. Cup-shaped with petals like ribbon doing a pirouette. Mark carefully crouches down on his toes. He and Johnny are both well aware of what this flower symbolizes. He fixes his stare on the flowers, but his focus is on Johnny. Johnny's approaching him now. Mark sniffs one bloom, even though he knows ranunculuses have no fragrance at all. Johnny pauses right at one end of the four-person  pinewood table in front of Mark. Mark sniffs.</p><p> </p><p>"So," Johnny says. "You've been <em> enthralled </em>, huh?" </p><p> </p><p>"What…" Mark croaks out, dragging the syllable with a dribbling chuckle. Then he clears his throat, crouching deep on his heels. Enthralled. Enraptured. Attracted. </p><p> </p><p>"How long have you been keeping your feelings in? That's <em> a lot </em> of flowers." </p><p> </p><p>"Uh. I don't know. A year maybe? I don't know." Mark folds his arms over his knees and plops his chin on his wrist. "It's just a little crush, though." </p><p> </p><p>"A little? I don't think it's just a little crush, buddy." </p><p> </p><p>Mark bounces a few times before mumbling, "Yeah, okay. Maybe I do like him. Like a lot. It's not that serious, anyway."</p><p> </p><p>"Uh-huh." Johnny squats down, does not say anything else, and starts plucking out one flower at a time. </p><p> </p><p>Mark has been told that he's as expressive as a garden. As open as the earth, as transparent as a petal, and that he's like a cascade—whatever's in his mind, anything within him, would pour themselves out. But with certain emotions such as <em> this </em>, there's a barrier blocking the stream. Deny. Avoid. Ignore. Or bottle them all up. And if it gets too much, flowers would express everything for him, sprouting out of any ground Mark is on. Bathroom tiles, hardwood floors, cobblestones. </p><p> </p><p>Mark touches one ranunculus, the petal so satin-like between his fingers, so paper-thin that his fingers flinch for a moment—for some reason, he thought the petal would tear apart. Then he traces one fuzzy stem, and pulls the bloom off the floor, the stem-sized hole swiftly closing as though nothing just hopped into existence through it. </p><p> </p><p>"Yo, at least we got ourselves some free fresh flowers," Mark says.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny chuckles, binding the flowers in his grip. "Guess we don't need to go to the flower market every morning. You know what to do." </p><p> </p><p>Mark laughs as he lifts himself up. He shakes his legs then turns to one side, stooping to pick the rest of the ranunculuses. "Gotta practice with these beauties, yo." </p><p> </p><p>"How about give a bunch to Donghyuck instead." </p><p> </p><p>Mark straightens up. "Oh my god, don't joke like that," he exclaims, rubbing his chest. </p><p> </p><p>"Not a joke!" </p><p> </p><p>"Okay…but nah. Nah. I told you, man. It's not really, you know, serious."</p><p> </p><p>"You sure about that?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>The sun watercolors the flower shop's white wall, its light like natural ink strained from marigold petals. It washes the leaves vining all over the trellis on the wall, over the potted ficus and dracaena plants on the ground and the pastel-colored arrangements on the whitewood shelf. It strokes towards one direction: towards Donghyuck on his usual seat on the shop's table. He is slouching over his small sketchpad, the short sleeve of his black graphic tee flapping with the movement of his hand, a glimpse of a red and black tattoo on the arm. Sunlight barely brushes his hair. </p><p> </p><p>One day, Donghyuck stormed in and said, "It's too dark at the studio! Can I sketch here?" Since then he has started spending his free time at the shop, drawing designs with his pen and his sketchbooks, sometimes his iPad, surrounded by cut flowers and ribbons and floral tapes. In a state of deep flow, he'd draw with his lips parted, the upper one in a pout, and with eyes as alive as the afternoon sun. Like right now.</p><p> </p><p>"You like what you see?" </p><p> </p><p>Diagonally opposite Mark, Donghyuck looks up at him without lifting his head, pinning Mark with a sharp stare through his purple bangs.</p><p> </p><p>"I was looking at the—" Mark, shifting from feet to feet, points behind Donghyuck. "At the flowers. In the cooler. I wasn't looking at you, dude." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck sits upright and says, with a hint of a smirk, "I meant my drawing." </p><p> </p><p>"That's. That's kinda what I meant," Mark mutters, immediately lowering his eyes and leaning his upper body over the table. He spots in his peripheral vision Donghyuck staring at him for a second, before hunching over his sketchpad again. </p><p> </p><p>On the table lies a chicken wire, floral shears, clear tape, a rose gold-colored pedestal vase that reminds Mark of Donghyuck's rose-tinted sunglasses. That would go well with his purple hair, Mark thinks. Then there are white hellebores and pink tulips and purple clematis on separate glass cylinder vases. Mark takes the chicken wire and sinks it into the pedestal vase. He snips strips of tape and crosses them over the wire, sticking them on the lips of the vase, to keep the wire from moving. The phone on the counter rings. Mark hears Johnny pick it up. Then he hears a ripping of a paper. A chair screeches. Donghyuck stands and stretches his whole body, reaching his fingertips heavenward, then he extends one arm towards Mark, holding out a piece of paper. The silver of his wristwatch winks. </p><p> </p><p>"For you! Again!" Donghyuck says. The sun is now directly painting him in marigold. The crown of his head, blazing in brown. The brown gradients into purple. He digs his free hand into the pocket of his black skinny jeans. </p><p> </p><p>Mark takes the paper, and is met with a sketch of an iris—no stem, only the flower head with large spilling sepals, smaller erect petals at the center, hatching shadows. Iris, the flower that brightens riverbanks and pond margins. With sepals, or falls, that droop as if asking for a palm to catch it.</p><p> </p><p>"That's supposed to be a yellow iris," says Donghyuck, shrugging, both hands now deep into his pockets.  </p><p> </p><p>Yellow iris. Yellow flag. Yellow water flag. "Yo, that's your birth flower. Did you know that?" </p><p> </p><p>"Ah, really? Well. Now I want an iris tattoo." </p><p> </p><p>Mark has never seen Donghyuck's tattoos. Only a glimpse on the right upper arm, the left thigh. He often wonders what they are, what they mean, where do they wander to. If there's more hidden. He imagines a black and grey iris flower on skin, doesn't matter where, imagines its stem and spathe, its falls with ruffled edges, descending to reveal the crests and the standards. Mark looks at the drawing in his hand. Fifth one he has received from Donghyuck. "Why do you keep giving me your sketches?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Why? You don't want them?"</p><p> </p><p>"I didn't even say anything like that."</p><p> </p><p>"You're so ungrateful. I'm giving that to Johnny hyung instead." Donghyuck removes a hand from his pocket, then upturns his palm. "Gimme that."</p><p> </p><p>"What? Why? Dude. No." Mark folds the paper and slips it into the pouch of his apron, sealing the pouch with both of his hands over it. "This is mine now. You said it's for me." </p><p> </p><p>"Wow," Donghyuck utters, fist over his mouth. He drops his hand on his side with a slap. "Okay! Since that flower is basically <em> me </em>, then I'm yours." He spreads his arms wide and smacks his chest twice, as if inviting Mark to come in for a hug. "I'm all yours!" </p><p> </p><p>Mark crinkles his nose, disguising a smile into a grimace. If there's no table between them, Donghyuck would've moved closer, and Mark would've protested, a way to persuade himself that he does not want their bodies pressed together. Mark bends over the table and slides the tape and shears aside, just to have something to do with his hand. </p><p> </p><p>"You're so…" Donghyuck mumbles, before clicking his tongue. "Anyway! Gotta go! Johnny hyung, bye!"</p><p> </p><p>Mark glances up just in time Donghyuck's giving a salute to Johnny. He turns to Mark, their eyes meeting instantly. "See you in three days!" Donghyuck says, sending him a finger heart. Then in just a couple of strides, he's out of the shop, the door tinkling open then muffling close. </p><p> </p><p>"You two are getting good at ignoring my presence," Johnny says from behind the counter without averting his eyes from his laptop, the keyboard clattering. </p><p> </p><p>Mark turns his whole body to the left, facing Johnny. "Dude, does it really seem that way..." </p><p> </p><p>After a tap on one key, Johnny rises from the stool with a playful huff then teases, "What's in three days, though? A date?" </p><p> </p><p>"What." Mark chuckles. "I don't think there will <em> ever </em> be a date…"</p><p> </p><p>Next to Johnny's laptop is a vase of white ranunculuses, still breathing, still blushing in pink, their colors complementing the whiteness of the counter and the collection of cream, milk, and rose colored vases on the wall-mounted shelves behind Johnny. </p><p> </p><p>Mark adds, "I'm getting a tattoo, remember? My first. Ever. Tattoo. Aye!" </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, yeah. Yeah." Johnny turns his back to Mark and stoops over a rack of ribbons, choosing among a rainbow of sheer ribbons, satin, taffeta, picot edged. "Did you already go for consultation?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>"Who's your artist? Ten or Yuta?" </p><p> </p><p>"Um." Mark spins back around towards the table. He should start the arrangement, he decides. His eyes sail from the white hellebore, to the pink tulips, to the purple clematis. Hellebore, tulips, clematis. Hellebore, tulips, clematis. He reaches for one vase, then clasps the bunch of clematis out of it. Finally, he answers, "Donghyuck." </p><p> </p><p>At the corner of his eye, he catches Johnny twisting his upper body around to look at him. Mark knows Johnny's mouth is hanging wide into a grin. "Oh. He's not an apprentice anymore, huh. When did your boyfriend get his license?" </p><p> </p><p>Mark almost swats the air with the clematis in his grip. "Stop joking about him being my boyfriend, oh my god. Dude. That will <em> never </em> happen." His fingers awkwardly hover around the flower heads, as though checking their condition, craning his neck as though in search for something concealed among the blooms. "Also, um, he got his license a month ago."</p><p> </p><p>"Oooh. You're gonna get inked by Donghyuck."</p><p> </p><p>Mark laughs, the flowers swaying with him. "Actually, um, actually." He clears his throat. "I just happened to like Donghyuck's style. I didn't even know they were his. Like. There were a lot of flower designs in his portfolio, dude. They're all so pretty." </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, I've seen his portfolio once," Johnny says, plopping back down on the stool. He folds his arms over the counter, eyes fixed on Mark. "Aren't you nervous?" </p><p> </p><p>"Not <em> right now </em> . But of course, I <em> will </em> be hella nervous. It's my first time, you know, so."</p><p> </p><p>"No, I mean, aren't you nervous that it's Donghyuck."</p><p> </p><p>Mark lifts the flowers to his face. Velvety purple filling his line of vision. The almond-like fragrance drawing him in. "Uh…nah. No." </p><p> </p><p>"Really. Because when I got my first tattoo, I was more nervous because of Ten. That was before we started dating."</p><p> </p><p>"Seriously!" Mark holds the flowers away from him until they are touched by the slant of sunlight. Not one of his favorites, but at the moment he's fascinated by it like a hummingbird fluttering over its vines. "Clematis, pilates," he jokes under his breath. "The color is so pretty, though. Like Donghyuck's hair." </p><p> </p><p>"Bro."</p><p> </p><p>"Huh? Wait. Did I say that out loud?"</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>💐</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Flower heads of red blooms—sunflower, rose, poppy, amaryllis, Korean rose, poinsettia, geranium—in cherry bomb red ink, bunched together over peeking sepals and small leaves in true black ink. Inked from the curve of Donghyuck's shoulder, down to an inch above his elbow. Red as hot as the sun's core, black as secretive as night. With gloved hands, Donghyuck has been squeezing green soap from a squirt bottle onto a paper towel. He is slouching on a rolling stool, causing the arm hole on his black muscle tee to slit even wider.</p><p> </p><p>Mark looks away. He shifts on the tattoo chair. He hikes his elbows up, thinking of plopping his forearm down on the armrest, but he is met with air instead, forgetting for a moment that Donghyuck has adjusted the armrests a while ago, lifting them up for space. Mark drops his elbows and drums his hands on the lap of his jeans, but only for a few slaps; he feels a little awkward. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck rolls closer. Small hoop earring on his left ear winking. His sandalwood perfume wafts stronger in the air today. Without saying a word, he rubs the paper towel across Mark's left upper arm, the scent of lavender oil and ethyl alcohol mingling with the sandalwood. He has not teased Mark since Mark entered the tattoo studio minutes ago. Only an, "Ooooh, biceps…" when he saw Mark in a muscle tee, too, but white. And then Donghyuck got serious. Professional. Mark wants to fan himself.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm going to shave the area now," Donghyuck says. </p><p> </p><p>"Alright."</p><p> </p><p>Mark watches the disposable razor slice down his skin. Donghyuck's gaze rises and falls with the razor. The design looks cool, Mark thinks, the framed one on the wall over Donghyuck's head. Colossal wings and countless number of descending eyes and jelly clocks. Donghyuck has a lot of moles—on the cheek, on the cheekbones, on the neck, one right on the throat; Mark wonders where the others are sowed and how many are there—Mark only notices them now that the distance between them is as thin as a twine, as sheer as a ribbon. He turns away. The station across the room is exactly the same. Client's chair, artist's chair, lamp, workstation, framed designs hanging on the wall. One design is of a burst of flowers breaking open from the back of a skull. Mark wants to guess Donghyuck's tattoo on his left thigh, if there are skulls, or flowers like his half sleeve one. </p><p> </p><p>When Mark turns back to his left, Donghyuck is staring up at him, knifing him with that stare. Mark darts his eyes on his arm instead. Donghyuck is wiping his arm now. </p><p> </p><p>"Time to apply the stencil," says Donghyuck as he throws the paper towel into the trash can. </p><p> </p><p>"Alright." Mark does not know any other words. </p><p> </p><p>Soon, Donghyuck is dropping creamy dots of stencil stuff across Mark's upper arm. He spreads the lotion, scrubbing with his gloved fingers. Mark follows Donghyuck's hand go round, and round, and round on his skin. Round and round. Up and down. Mark blinks and flicks his eyes away, which instantly landed on the slim rips across Donghyuck's black jeans, right on the knees. Tattoo peeps through the left one. How much of his leg is covered in tattoos? Donghyuck's legs are spread too wide. </p><p> </p><p>The leather on Mark's chair feels sticky. </p><p> </p><p>"Please don't move, okay? I'm going to apply the stencil now," Donghyuck says. He hovers the stencil over Mark's arm, angling for the best position, then he carefully sticks its rounded top corner onto Mark's skin, and slowly presses down and down, making sure there are no bubbles, that the surface is smooth. After a few cautious downward strokes, Donghyuck peels the stencil off from the bottom to the top. "Let's wait for it to dry for about ten to fifteen minutes." Donghyuck stands and slips out of the gloves. He washes his hands on the small basin behind the workstation, then he reaches out for a rectangular mirror next to an ink drawing hooked on the wall: two swans shaping a heart with their bowed heads, their bodies detailed with vines and flowers. Mark studies Donghyuck's tattoo as he yanks the mirror off the wall. Gorgeous, as the poppy, the rose, the Korean rose, everything, flutters with his skin.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck sinks back down on the stool and wheels closer. The mirror facing Mark. "Check it out," says Donghyuck.</p><p> </p><p>On Mark's upper arm is a bunch of pansies in purple stencil ink. He imagines the final look, in black and grey ink with shading and everything, alive like a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Mark did not send a reference. Only asked Donghyuck if he can do <em> this one </em> from his portfolio. Pansy. Memories of love. Mark does not have any memories of love. He just likes this certain design. And pansies. And flowers in general. And this language of pansies.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck is staring at his arm. A few heartbeats and then his eyes flicker up, meeting Mark's own. Mark's eyes bat down to Donghyuck's half sleeve tattoo for a second, and then they're back to Donghyuck again, whose gaze has not wavered. </p><p> </p><p>Mark is pinned. </p><p> </p><p>By Donghyuck, and his stare. By his purple hair; his moles and those collarbones; his silver piercing; the burning blooms inked on his skin; his hands, graceful and skilled; his humor; his cheerful demeanor. By everything Mark has seen, and has yet to see. They've been staring at each other for so long, that it seems like it's long enough for the stencil ink to dry on Mark's skin. </p><p> </p><p>And then he gets unpinned. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck breaks the eye contact first. He snaps his head down at the ground, shoulders shoot up, then he slides away a little. Mark peers at whatever Donghyuck is gaping at. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh shit." Mark sits upright, away from the backrest. "Oh my god." </p><p> </p><p>Through the floor, a shiny grey, stems with seed leaves push themselves up, and immediately, true leaves unfurl. The stems grow longer and longer as more leaves emerge, the stems extending about fifteen inches tall, and soon, buds develop and unfold like a dance—flower heads bloom with pointed petals that curl downwards, petals that overlap, layers and layers of softness, blossoming in the shade of a sighing sunset. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, fuck."</p><p> </p><p>Orange roses.</p><p> </p><p>"Holy shit."</p><p> </p><p>The chair he is on is looped with orange roses. No thorns. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god."</p><p> </p><p>Desire?</p><p> </p><p>"Wow," Donghyuck utters. He lays the mirror on his lap, then leans over to examine the blooms by his black boots.</p><p> </p><p>Orange roses, desire.</p><p> </p><p>Mark falls onto the backrest in a face palm. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," he whispers. </p><p> </p><p>"What flowers are these?" </p><p> </p><p>Mark peeks through his fingers with one eye. "What?" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck, still bent over the mirror on his lap, only raises his head a bit with his eyebrows, his projected jawline looking like it can shear through anything. </p><p> </p><p>"Um. Orange roses," Mark mumbles against his palms. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck gasps. </p><p> </p><p>Mark shrinks into his seat. "I—"</p><p> </p><p>"That's why it looks so familiar!" Donghyuck says. "I've never seen orange roses in real life before…" </p><p> </p><p>Mark lowers his hands and peers over his fingertips. Donghyuck is sniffing the rose right in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>Mark says, "I'm really really sorry. I'll clean it up, it's gonna be quick, I swear." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck keeps his head down and flaps a hand twice. "Hyung, it's fine!" </p><p> </p><p>"This is really really embarrassing. I can explain."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck straightens up. "I know, I know."</p><p> </p><p>"What?"</p><p> </p><p>"I know you—what do you call it—explode in flowers? Boom! Blooms! Something like that." </p><p> </p><p>Mark lets out an awkward chuckle. "Yeah…"</p><p> </p><p>"Hyung must be very very nervous, huh?" </p><p> </p><p>"What?"</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck indicates the flowers with his open palms. "Look at all these flowers. You must be very nervous. It's okay! It's normal!" </p><p> </p><p>"Wait." Mark releases another chuckle, relieved this time. He rubs his chest again and again, feeling his heartbeat. "Wait. Yeah. Yeah. Really really seriously nervous right now. For real."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck taps his fingertips on the mirror, and says, "I'll just do your tattoo at another station, that one over there." Donghyuck nods towards the other side of the room, then he leaps from the stool. "Breathe, okay? Try to focus on your breathing while I set up." </p><p> </p><p>Mark clears his throat. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck walks around the stool and hooks the mirror back to the wall. "I'll help you pluck these all out after doing the tattoo!" he says, spinning around. He takes a few steps forward and squats on his toes in front of the roses, elbows on knees. "The orange actually looks good against all of the grey and black in here. To be honest, any flower would look good. The studio needs this!" </p><p> </p><p>Mark lifts his weight from the backrest. He has failed to notice how this room is wide and open, quiet with him being the only client, like a field yielding a whistling silence. Four stations at each of the four corners. Grey walls tatted in framed ink drawings. Ceiling lights dripping onto the floor which is glossy and coated in metallic epoxy, the floor like a hidden, midnight pond. It has seemed as though he is in a closed space all this time. Too close to Donghyuck, the only lavender in the field. </p><p> </p><p>"Uh. You want?" Mark asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Huh?" Donghyuck looks up. "I want what?"</p><p> </p><p>"Flowers? Do you want flowers? Like for the studio, I mean! I can give you a bunch. On a vase. I just think it would look pretty on the, um, reception area? Or something? Or anywhere in this room. Like, as an apology for making a mess! Also as an extra thanks for the tattoo? I don't know…" Mark wedges his hands underneath his thighs, his palms boring into the leather. Currently, he hopes to trowel soil all over his own body until he is buried deep. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck's lips broaden into a grin. He says in a high-pitched voice, "Wah! Mark hyung? Mark Lee? You'd give flowers to me?"</p><p> </p><p>"It's for the studio!"</p><p> </p><p>"Same thing!"</p><p> </p><p>Mark looks over at the flowers around him to avoid meeting Donghyuck's eyes, grumbling to himself, "How am I gonna get out of here. I don't wanna accidentally step on the roses…"</p><p> </p><p>"I'll carry you!" Donghyuck rises from his squat. "Come here!"</p><p> </p><p>Mark scrunches his nose. "You can't." </p><p> </p><p>"You're right." </p><p> </p><p>Mark laughs, facing the other way, towards the other station. His legs are long enough to step one foot at a time over the roses, anyway. What if he gives one of these to Donghyuck? They'd be gorgeous on their own in a bunch. Or perhaps an arrangement with other orange blooms like zinnias, pom poms, lilies. They'd be dreamy in a basket. But a vase is enough, for an apology and thank you arrangement. </p><p> </p><p>Mark doesn't notice that Donghyuck has walked around the client chair, and is now in front of him. Mark does a few questioning blinks. Donghyuck nods his head down in response. He reaches his arm out to Mark over the roses, palms upturned, fingertips encouraging him to take his hand. Mark slides to the edge of the chair, legs lifted up, and then takes Donghyuck's hand. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>"Are these the orange roses from yesterday?" Donghyuck asks as he studies the floral arrangement in his hand. </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. There were just so many of them, you know? So why not." </p><p> </p><p>Mark has clutched with the orange roses some orange cockscomb, burgundy dahlias, and burgundy baby cosmos, dipped in a narrow-necked glass vase. The stems are splayed into the water milky against Donghyuck's white t-shirt. Donghyuck is standing in the middle of the shop, like a centerpiece, soft in the cant morning light cascading through the flower shop's glass window. </p><p> </p><p>"Wah…so pretty," Donghyuck says. </p><p> </p><p>As pretty as summer. The flowers. And Donghyuck, he pushes his top lip forward in admiration, like the sweep of the petals. Mark leans against the table behind him because he does not know what to do, with Donghyuck holding the arrangement Mark made for him, for the tattoo studio, with Johnny tossing teasing glances at Mark from the open floral cooler. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck helped Mark pluck out every orange rose from the floor after the tattoo procedure yesterday. Donghyuck kept throwing jokes from the other side of the client chair, and Mark kept toppling backwards from his squat for every burst of laughter, careful not to squash the roses, or to fall on his left side where his tattoo was, fresh and shielded in a clear bandage, or to knock over the buckets of water for the flowers that Johnny has provided them. After getting the tattoo, Mark texted Johnny the sprout emoji, and then sent another message asking for buckets of water, <em> please don't ask </em>. Johnny gaped for a whole minute as soon as he saw the orange roses, but did not say anything else, other than, "I'd help you guys pluck the roses, but I have a client to meet!"</p><p> </p><p>Mark met Donghyuck by the foot of the client chair to pick off the last of the flowers. That was when Donghyuck started saying, with every pull of a stem, "Mark hyung loves me. Mark hyung loves me not. Mark hyung loves me. Mark hyung loves me not—" </p><p> </p><p>Mark laughed. "Dude, that's not how—you gotta, like, pluck the petals of a daisy for that."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck paused and stared blankly at Mark. "I know," he muttered, before resuming, "Mark hyung loves me. Mark hyung loves me not." </p><p> </p><p>Mark could have taken the last rose himself. Instead he twisted to his right and arranged the ones on the bucket, just so he could not see the moment Donghyuck grasped the last flower, and proclaimed, "Mark hyung loves me!" Donghyuck gasped. "I knew you love me!" Donghyuck clucked his tongue. "I'm so irresistible." </p><p> </p><p>Mark wrinkled his nose to shoo the blush away. </p><p> </p><p>"Mark hyung loves me!" </p><p> </p><p>"Shut up," Mark grumbled as he rose. "That's not even how it works." </p><p> </p><p>"You still love me."</p><p> </p><p>Mark grabbed two buckets. "Let's bring these to the shop!"</p><p> </p><p>Now Mark is brushing the back of a finger against his scrunched nose, his other hand holding onto the table behind him. Johnny has shut the floral cooler without taking anything, and is on his way to the backroom, deliberately leaving Mark and Donghyuck alone.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck lifts the vase a little, then tips his head sideways to check the stems. "How long will they last?" </p><p> </p><p>"About four days?" </p><p> </p><p>"Aww. I'll do my best to make them happy in those four days." </p><p> </p><p>Mark chuckles. "They <em> might </em> last a week, though. Who knows? For however long they last…whatever, but, you know? It's the meaning that matters." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck lowers the vase and fixes Mark an odd look. "Oh. What's the meaning of these flowers, then?"</p><p> </p><p>"I mean. What I meant was, it's the thought that counts. Like. You know what I mean." Mark pulls away from the table and wipes his palms across his apron. Shifting from one foot to the other, he adds, "But actually, I don't really consider the language of flowers when I do arrangements. But for bouquets, I do, most of the time. Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>"And when they die?"     </p><p> </p><p>"What?" </p><p> </p><p>"Will you give me another one?" Donghyuck is pouting, inner eyebrows raised quite dramatically. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm giving <em> that </em> to the studio, not to you."</p><p> </p><p>"This is mine." </p><p> </p><p>Mark laughs.</p><p> </p><p>"So? Will you give me more?" </p><p> </p><p>Mark averts his eyes, letting them drift around the shop now adorned with orange roses: a bunch on the counter, then as focal flowers in arrangements on the whitewood shelf behind Donghyuck and on display by the window. The shop blooming with warmth. Chuckling, Mark says, "Nah…" </p><p> </p><p>"Okay!" </p><p> </p><p>"Wait. That's it?" </p><p> </p><p>Already Donghyuck has turned, taking cautious steps towards the door, the water in the vase sloshing a bit. "See you later!" he chirps over his shoulder. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Before Mark lies black velvet petunias, black roses which are the darkest of red, and white baby's breath, on a lace of sunlight spread across the shop's pinewood table. He bought them fresh from the flower market at six in the morning, when the sky was as dark as the petunias' petals. Earlier than Johnny who would usually buy flowers around seven. </p><p> </p><p>Mark takes a rose in his gloved hands, then sheds off its thorns and leaves in one jagged slide with a thorn stripper. He was pricked by a rose once, white one. Nothing like the sting from a tattoo needle. The skin on the outer arm is a little more taut, less painful compared to the other parts of the body, but Mark found himself hissing a "Fuck" every now and then when Donghyuck was inking him. Donghyuck joked, "I'm sorry, I can't hold your hand." But that was only once. He did not say much during the procedure, but he would tell Mark if something's about to hurt more. Mark remembers how, against the buzz of the tattoo machine, Donghyuck's voice was as low and lulling as a rustling rosebush. </p><p> </p><p>Mark has already stripped all of the roses off their thorns, spiraled the petunias, roses, and baby's breath together, and is now tying a floral wire to clutch the flowers, when the door chimes. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck comes in with the vase for the orange roses in his hands. Emptied of flowers and water. Only filled with the grey of Donghyuck's t-shirt. The greyness makes it seem emptier. Donghyuck places the vase on his usual spot on the table, then he hiccups fake sobs, breaking the news, "The flowers have passed away." </p><p> </p><p>They lasted a week, to Mark's surprise. Withered just as when Mark's tattoo completely healed. Mark takes the vase with him behind the counter and rinses it out on the sink, then he returns to the table, all the while sensing Donghyuck's gaze following him. From one end of the table, he grips the small watering can, then pours into the vase enough water. </p><p> </p><p>"Hyung, has your tattoo healed?" Donghyuck asks. "It should be." </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah." Mark sinks the black flowers into the vase. Without thinking, he says, "Wanna see?" </p><p> </p><p>"Of course!" </p><p> </p><p>Mark lets out a quick chuckle for no reason. "Alright," he says, stepping backwards. He unties his apron and hangs it on the backrest of the chair beside him. He unclasps the buttons of his shirt going down, down, down, then shrugs the left sleeve off, letting it dangle. He feels as though he's stripping himself like the roses. Donghyuck's watching him. Mark rolls the short sleeve of his undershirt, up to the shoulders, then turns so his left arm faces Donghyuck.</p><p> </p><p>"They do look like butterflies," Donghyuck comments. He walks around the table, and in just a heartbeat, he's beside Mark. </p><p> </p><p>Mark adjusts his position, and Donghyuck bends a bit, hands on knees, to look closely. Mark looks away. He gulps. When was the last time he drank water today? Johnny's having lunch with Ten somewhere. Someone enters the vinyl thrift store next to the bakery. Inside the bakery, Mark can make out a figure sitting on the wooden bar stool, underneath the dried sea lavenders. The power lines ink the pavement with their shadows. The street is a still river of warm sunlight. And Donghyuck's presence is just as warm. </p><p> </p><p>Mark inhales and faces Donghyuck. Donghyuck has not moved, except his eyes are on Mark this time, probably has been on Mark longer than he knows. And Mark stares back. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck purses his lips, and bats his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Mark says, almost in a whisper, "Pretty." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck tips his head sideways. </p><p> </p><p>Mark says, "The tattoo's pretty, isn't it."</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. Of course. Thanks to the artist." </p><p> </p><p>Mark chuckles. "Yeah. Thanks to the artist." </p><p> </p><p>"Hyung. Have I told you you have nice biceps?" </p><p> </p><p>Mark closes his eyes for a second. Donghyuck is giggling. Mark glues his lips together so as to not allow himself to break into a smile, then he unrolls his sleeve. Donghyuck straightens up with a slap on his thighs, then he spins and wanders back to the other side of the table, as Mark slips his arm into the long sleeve of his shirt. </p><p> </p><p>"Gotta go!" Donghyuck says. "Thanks for the flowers, by the way. Everybody in the studio loves it." </p><p> </p><p>"Wait, hold on," Mark says, hastily buttoning his shirt. He points at the black flowers. "For you. For the studio." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck gapes behind his clenched fist. "Really? Wow." </p><p> </p><p>"It's just for practice." Mark avoids Donghyuck's eyes and focuses on his own hand fixing the fold of his sleeve. "But you know, as I was doing it, I figured it would look nice at the studio's reception area. I mean, like, it won't fit in here right now." </p><p> </p><p>The shop today is flushed with arrangements of white fillers, greeneries, and pink focal flowers, like spring, a sweet beginning. Blushing blooms of roses, cherry blossoms, peonies, lisianthus, orchids. Mark glances at the black velvet petunias and black roses, and finally, at Donghyuck, who's smiling at him. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck cups the vase and carries it, admiring it for a moment before saying, "Thank you, hyung." </p><p> </p><p>"Keep the vase." </p><p> </p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p> </p><p>"Uh. Keep the vase?" </p><p> </p><p>By the way Donghyuck is looking at him, Mark knows Donghyuck gets it. But Donghyuck does not utter any other word, only an, "Okay!" </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Donghyuck hasn't been spending much time at the shop to sketch lately. Mark only sees him in the mornings when he walks past the shop, with his periwinkle saddle bag, greeting Mark and Johnny with a grin or a wave or a salute or finger guns or a peace sign. He passes by so quick he's like a lilac petal whisked by the wind.</p><p> </p><p>This morning, he greets Mark by drawing an imaginary bow, aiming at Mark, shooting him a phantom arrow. Mark plays along, slamming his hands over his heart. </p><p> </p><p>Now Mark is on the stool behind the counter, holding up the arrangement he has just designed—daffodils, marigolds, irises, sunflowers, forsythias—tied in a twine. All blooms beam in yellow. He is just thinking of visiting the studio to give the flowers, when Donghyuck breezes into the shop, shouting, "Suh Johnny!"  </p><p> </p><p>"What!" Johnny is by the table, plucking the leaves from white camellias.  </p><p> </p><p>"Ten hyung is asking for your packed lunch for today," Donghyuck approaches the table, then taps his fingertips on the surface, his wristwatch glinting. "He's with a client right now. So. I'm here. Being a compassionate human being." </p><p> </p><p>"Is that the only reason why you're here?" Johnny asks, picking up another camellia. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck puffs his chest, plain black tee stretching with the movement. "Wow. What do you mean by that." </p><p> </p><p>"Nothing!" Johnny lowers the camellia on the table, then starts making his way to the backroom. "Mark, entertain our guest!" </p><p> </p><p>"What?" Mark laughs behind the blooms in his hands. </p><p> </p><p>Mark hears light footsteps. Then he feels something graze his hair. He cranes his neck and peers over the sunflowers and the irises, immediately meeting Donghyuck's eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck says, "Oh, sorry, I thought that was a flower too."</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, slowly, giggles trickle out of Mark's throat, the flowers flickering. He brushes the part of his hair that was kissed by Donghyuck's fingertips. No room for pink blooms within these yellow flowers. Mark hopes he is not blushing right now. </p><p> </p><p>Mark thrusts the flowers against Donghyuck's chest. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh?" Donghyuck utters, grasping the stems.</p><p> </p><p>Mark roams his palms over the whiteness of the counter. He debates if he should re-organize the pins in the drawer below him. Or if he should turn around and rearrange the shears and the ribbons. Or if he should stand up and shake his legs, for circulation. A bunch of violets is in a vase on the counter, velvety, glossy. Donghyuck is against the light but somehow shines more. Mark remains planted in his position.</p><p> </p><p>"Wait, aren't these the flowers I drew for you?" Donghyuck asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Uh. Yeah?" Mark shifts on his seat. "Saw my hair on the mirror and was like, yo, why not design with yellow blooms today? I don't know."</p><p> </p><p>"Lame!" Donghyuck says behind a whine, throwing his head back. But the fake whine turns into a giggle, then he's hiding behind the flowers, and then Mark giggles with him.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>A week goes by. Their interactions have only been through the flower shop's storefront glass. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck has greeted him with a sneaky middle finger, a raise of the eyebrows, a tight-lipped smile revealing dimples that Mark has not seen before. Mark would watch Donghyuck's saddle bag bump against Donghyuck's stomach as he walks, like every bounce, the periwinkles on the bag's skin would let go of their petals, and they would float down and down onto the sunbathing sidewalk as though leaving a trail for Mark to follow. </p><p> </p><p>At the moment, Donghyuck is sticking his tongue out at Mark.  </p><p> </p><p>Mark lifts a hand up and mouths, "Wait. Hold on. Don't move." He takes a bunch of flowers from the table, and when he turns around, Donghyuck is already waiting for him by the door.</p><p> </p><p>Mark leans on the open door and holds the flowers out towards Donghyuck. A purple arrangement. Purple and lavender roses, purple irises, alliums, waxflowers, wisterias. The wisterias droop on the sides, falling into the gravity of Mark's palm. </p><p> </p><p>"Wow." Donghyuck gently takes the flowers from Mark. "Thank you, hyung," he says, eyes not leaving the purple blooms. </p><p> </p><p>Wind sails by. Few strands of Donghyuck's hair flutters up, and Mark, with no hesitation, reaches out, lightly touching the strands. When Donghyuck gives him a surprised, confused look, Mark says, "Oh. Sorry. I thought that was a flower, too." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck's lips part. "Amazing," he says. "Amazing," he repeats. "Amazing. Wow." </p><p> </p><p>They both burst into laughter. </p><p> </p><p>Mark wonders if he has ever seen Donghyuck laugh like this before, and then he thinks, he knows, he would pick up every periwinkle petal from the ground, let them collect in his palm until their softness fills his hands, follow Donghyuck wherever he goes.</p><p> </p><p>A minute after Donghyuck has gone, flowers sprout around and over Mark's feet. Two rings of two different species encircle him: cornflowers and aster yomena. Cornflowers with narrow stems, papery flower heads that bloom in a blend of blue and lavender. Asters with white ray and yellow disk florets, flower heads as small as a key lime atop tall stems. Mark crouches down. He wheels a finger around the rays of a single aster, and, all of a sudden, it crosses his mind that the tips of the petals can slit his skin like a papercut would. Aster yomena, longing. Cornflower, his birth flower, happiness. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>💐</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Red blooms—sunflower, rose, poppy, amaryllis, Korean rose, poinsettia, geranium—held together in a vine-wrapped wire, doused in the honey of the sun ready to dip. It has been five days since he has given Donghyuck the purple flowers. Five minutes before the flower shop would close for the day, four hours earlier than the tattoo studio. Mark has decided to stop by before he leaves for home, to hand these red blooms. But he has been standing in front of the shop's door, has not even touched the door handle yet. </p><p> </p><p>"Just open the door, Mark," Johnny says.  </p><p> </p><p>Mark flashes Johnny a nervous smile over his shoulder. Johnny, wiping the table clean, throws Mark a thumbs up. </p><p> </p><p>Mark chuckles. "Why are we making it look like I'm about to confess."</p><p> </p><p>"Why not?"</p><p> </p><p>"No!" </p><p> </p><p>Johnny shrugs. "Just get out of here, Mark." </p><p> </p><p>"Right! Yeah!" </p><p> </p><p>Mark grips the door handle, pushes it down, then thrusts the door open, stepping out into the honeyed sidewalk. He wonders if Donghyuck's with a client at the moment. Or if it's his break time. Or if he's drawing designs. Mark feels like he's standing on a viscous ground that his feet feel heavy. Slowly, he turns to his left. </p><p> </p><p>And then he comes face to face with another pair of classic Converse. Mark looks up. </p><p> </p><p>There's Donghyuck a few steps away from him. In the middle of closing the door to the tattoo studio. Mouth agape. Loose grey tee in a front tuck, so loose it appears to be slipping from his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>Mark must have looked as surprised as him that they both break into a smile, leaning forward as they do as though they are laughing, but there are no sounds other than the rustling of leaves and Mark's heartbeat. Donghyuck shuts the door and steps forward. Mark does as well, walking towards Donghyuck, until there's only a single step needed before the toe tips of their similar shoes would kiss.</p><p> </p><p>"Is that for me?" Donghyuck asks.</p><p> </p><p>Mark answers by gently pushing the flowers onto Donghyuck. Donghyuck holds the blooms. And they do it again, the silent laugh and shining eyes, bending forward in sync. </p><p> </p><p>Once Donghyuck has gotten a good look at the flowers, he gasps, and says, "This is my tattoo, right? This is my tattoo." </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah." </p><p> </p><p>"Wah…"</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck with the red blooms. Sweet under the last few drops of the sun. If Mark touches Donghyuck's hand, Donghyuck would stay with him, stick into the skin of his palms, and if he clenches his fists, it would be impossible to let go. Mark feels like the sun is dripping all over him, and he feels warm, so overwhelmingly warm, he can't move. Doesn't want to move. </p><p> </p><p>"I'll bother you and Johnny hyung tomorrow, by the way." Donghyuck looks up from the flowers. "Maybe draw something for you. Who knows," he adds, wobbling his head, teasing.</p><p> </p><p>Mark shrugs. "We missed you."</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. Are you sure Johnny hyung missed me." </p><p> </p><p>"I'm sure I did, though." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck smiles, but it seems like he's fighting against it, so his expression fades into a smug look, and with eyes landing anywhere but Mark, he says, "As you should." </p><p> </p><p>When Mark comes back to the shop, he shuts the door and remains there staring at square shadows and a comb of sun and asks, "Johnny. What do you call it when you like someone but it's more than just a like. Like. More than liking that someone a lot. More than liking someone very very much. Like. You know what I mean." </p><p> </p><p>Johnny does not turn from the cooler when he replies, "You like him very very very very much a lot." </p><p> </p><p>Mark rolls his head back, laughing. "Come on…"</p><p> </p><p>"Well. You mean. You're in love?"</p><p> </p><p>Mark laughs, again, stiffly. "What…" </p><p> </p><p>Johnny spins around and theatrically shrugs. "The feeling is mutual, anyway."</p><p> </p><p>"Nah…" Mark shakes his head. "No way. He's just like that. He's just—" Mark shakes his head, again. "He just loves teasing me, you know." </p><p> </p><p>"I bet if you would pluck every petal out of every daisy in South Korea, you'd get the same result each time. He loves you. He loves you not. He loves you." </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Mark, perched on the chair, sets aside the excess chicken wire, twine, ribbon, kraft paper, and the clippers, the shears, and the floral tape towards the other end of the table, then slides himself into the grass of extra leaves and stalks of chamomile flowers, folding his arms together, digging his chin into the back of his hand. He should be cleaning up. But diagonally opposite him is Donghyuck, drawing with his pen on his small sketchbook. </p><p> </p><p>Mark can't see. The sketchbook covered by Donghyuck's arm. Mark can't see much of Donghyuck's face, too, under the black bucket hat and his hair, much longer, now truly a cascade of wisterias. He's wearing a black Adidas tracksuit today, embracing most of him. Watching him is as calming as chamomile. </p><p> </p><p>"If you have something to say, don't keep it in," Donghyuck mumbles. </p><p> </p><p>Mark stutters, and ends up only grumbling a "The fuck…" </p><p> </p><p>It isn't long before Donghyuck snaps into an upright position and swings his arm towards Mark, holding a paper. "Cornflower. Your birth flower!" </p><p> </p><p>Mark lifts himself up on both forearms and takes the paper. Donghyuck has drawn a single flower head, ray florets opening for a cluster of disc florets, underneath a thin stem falls like rain with stalks holding either a leaf or a bud. </p><p> </p><p>"That could be a nice tattoo. If you want a second one." </p><p> </p><p>Mark rubs the paper with a thumb, as if he'd feel the satin-like texture of the petals. "Yeah…" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck leaps from his seat and walks over to the other side of the table, and soon, he's hovering behind Mark. "I was thinking it could be on your back." </p><p> </p><p>Mark does not move, only looking at Donghyuck at the corner of his eye. He asks, "Where?" </p><p> </p><p>"Maybe along the spine? That's gonna be really really painful." Donghyuck bends a little bit forward, perhaps studying Mark's back covered in a long sleeve black t-shirt. </p><p> </p><p>"Where…exactly?"</p><p> </p><p>"Around here." Donghyuck pushes a finger right below the nape of Mark's neck, right against his skin, then outlines a circle, fingertip going round and round, then Donghyuck traces a line along Mark's spine, going lower and lower. </p><p> </p><p>Mark, embarrassingly, lets out a giggle as he pulls his shoulders back and flinches away. "It tickles," he says.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh." </p><p> </p><p>Mark should have known how Donghyuck's going to react to that information. </p><p> </p><p>"Okay," Donghyuck says, and then immediately attacks Mark with dabs and pokes, stabbing scattered lines all over his back, and Mark jumps from the chair, yelling, "Fuck!" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck's laughing in his throat, smacking his own thigh like it's the funniest thing ever. "Sorry, sorry," he says breathlessly. </p><p> </p><p>Mark smiles under a glare, which softens anyhow. He ruffles his hair, shakes his head, and when he realizes how he might have made mortifying noises, he hides his eyes behind his palm. "Oh my god…" he whispers to himself.</p><p> </p><p>Mark hears Donghyuck apologize once more. A beat. And then he feels something slip behind his ear. He drops his hand. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck is cupping his face and says, "Pretty!" </p><p> </p><p>Chamomile. Donghyuck has sneaked a chamomile flower behind Mark's ear. </p><p> </p><p>"What the hell…" Mark mumbles, trying not to smile. He lightly touches the small flower head. Johnny calls chamomiles little eggs. Mark calls chamomiles the most obvious thing, little daisies. They look like little daisies. Daisies. He loves me, he loves me not. </p><p> </p><p>"I'll get going!" Donghyuck suddenly declares. He goes around the table, grabs his sketchbook and squeezes it between his armpit, then he sinks both hands into the pockets of his track pants. "See you!" he chirps over his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>Mark wordlessly watches Donghyuck go. But as soon as the door tinkles and then closes, Mark jogs after Donghyuck, swings the door open, steps out, then shouts, "Wait!" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck spins around, startled. </p><p> </p><p>"You forgot something," Mark says as he steps closer. </p><p> </p><p>"Huh? My pen's in the pocket, though? I got my sketchbook here. What—" </p><p> </p><p>Mark raises a hand and reaches for Donghyuck and through Donghyuck's wisteria hair, he tucks a chamomile flower behind Donghyuck's ear. </p><p> </p><p>"I know. I'm corny," Mark says, chuckling, gazing down towards his own feet. </p><p> </p><p>They are under the shade. The other side of the road burns in direct sunlight. Donghyuck's wearing white sneakers. He has neither shifted nor uttered anything. Mark slides up the sleeves of his top just below the elbow. He wonders how Donghyuck would appear like under the glow of the sun, with a chamomile flower behind his ear. Chamomile flower. Little daisy. He loves me. He loves me not.</p><p> </p><p>"Hyung. I think I'm in love with you." </p><p> </p><p>Mark almost staggers. He keeps his head low. He turns to his right but he slams his eyes shut from the sunlight's glare. "I—" He takes a step backwards. He checks his watch-less wrist. Invisible clock hands ticking so loudly in his ears. "I forgot, I forgot I have to flower my flowers," he says.</p><p> </p><p>And then just like that, he walks away. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>💐</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Purple rosebush. For days, every morning, Mark would turn away from the shop's window whenever he spots purple in his peripheral, calling him over like a climbing purple rosebush looking over a stone wall, striking by just being there. Donghyuk has not greeted him the way he used to. No finger hearts, no finger guns, no winks, no flying kisses. Only a subtle bow of the head or a hesitant wave of the hand. And Mark would pretend not to see, wherever he is. He would turn to reach anything on the other end of the table, a clipper, a pair of shears. Or he would face the floral cooler as if he's in the middle of choosing a bloom. Or he would spin to arrange the ribbon rack behind the counter, or to turn the faucet on, the water splashing away his nerves for a second. He would shrink like a shameplant. </p><p> </p><p>Mark shrinks deeper when Johnny towers over him as he is crouching between the cooler and the potted weeping fig. Forest green floral tape hooped around his finger, which Mark has just picked up from the floor, but now he can't seem to make himself rise from the ground, like a seed drowned in soil, stuck and can't spring up. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god, I'm being dramatic." </p><p> </p><p>"Well," Johnny says, hands on hips. "Are you just gonna sit there till I close the shop?"</p><p> </p><p>"I fucked up, dude. Like, I fucked up for real." </p><p> </p><p>"<em> Well </em>, the first solution to that is to stand up." Johnny holds out a hand. "Come on."</p><p> </p><p>Mark exhales. He grabs Johnny's hand and stands, suddenly noticing the cold that has been seeping through his shirt from the wall. "Man…I don't even know why I reacted that way," he mutters. It has been four days. He drags his feet towards the table, plops on a chair, and sprawls his arms on the pinewood, the floral tape rolling across the surface, up to Donghyuck's usual spot, spinning, tumbling down. "I'm so embarrassed, Johnny…Like, I can't even face him. Oh my god. Why am I like this? What the fuck."</p><p> </p><p>"Not exactly your fault," Johnny says, taking a seat across from him. "You were in a panicked state. It's difficult to be in control, you know? Don't beat yourself up." </p><p> </p><p>Mark groans and buries his face against the crook of his elbow. </p><p> </p><p>"Mark, Mark, Mark!" Johnny exaggerates. Mark feels a pat on his head. "It's already done," Johnny says. "But you have to do something now you know? You don't need to pluck all of the petals out of every daisy you see. The feeling is mutual. Your feelings are reciprocated! You know what to do, man. You have to allow yourself…" Johnny chuckles. "You have to allow yourself to sprout." </p><p> </p><p>"What…" Mark laughs, smacking the table, stomping his feet. As soon as his laughter dies down, he stretches his upper body like the unfolding of a shameplant, then he slouches with a slap of his hands on his thighs. </p><p> </p><p>"In all seriousness," Johnny says. "Donghyuck's probably embarrassed too. And hurt. You're just avoiding him, man. Take your time, but don't make him wait for too long. Don't prolong the agony for the both of you." </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>The following morning, Mark keeps blinking towards the window. As he's checking the cooler, as he's wiping underneath the vases, as he's re-organizing pins in the drawers behind the counter. Donghyuck passes by as Mark's sweeping the floor. Donghyuck, gripping the strap of his periwinkle saddle bag, slows down his walk. They lock eyes. Donghyuck gives him a small smile. Mark should be leaning the broom against the table by now. Then he should be gesturing for Donghyuck to wait. Then he should be out of the shop, asking Donghyuck if they can talk later. But the broom is still in his hand, and Mark is frozen in the middle of brooming, and every bloom around the shop feels like they are frozen with him. Mark does not know if he's smiling, but he manages a staggering wave of the hand. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck seems taken aback, stopping dead in his tracks. His smile broadens. Eyes glistens, just the way his hair does under the morning light. Mark feels himself mirroring Donghyuck's smile, so his gaze falls down on the floor, face as flushed as a cotton rosemallow. He breathes in, then out, and when he looks up again, Donghyuck immediately waves, and then he continues on his way. </p><p> </p><p>"Fuck." Mark slams his forehead against the heel of his hand. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow," he promises himself. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>The smell of lavenders settles Mark's nerves the next morning, his senses serene for a moment. Mark holds the shop's door open, and wheels the potted lavenders outside on a planter caddy. He carries the pot off the caddy and sets it on the ground, right beside the door, against the glass window where the lavenders reach for the arrangement displayed from inside, of lilacs with green and white popcorn viburnum blooms. As he's twisting and shifting the pot's position, he suddenly scents sandalwood near him. He stands upright.</p><p> </p><p>"Good morning, hyung," Donghyuck gently greets.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck looks like he belongs with the lilacs and the lavenders, just standing like that in front of Mark. Donghyuck shifts from feet to feet. The tattoo on his left thigh moves with him, peeking through the torn on his ripped jeans. Hand on the strap of his saddle bag; the key lime and peach leaves seem like they're about to get plucked out of the bag's skin and then float with the morning breeze. He's wearing his favorite jacket over a white shirt. Small silver hoop earring flickers. Atami plum blossom lips. Hair quivers with the wind. </p><p> </p><p>"Donghyuck," Mark croaks out. </p><p> </p><p>The bakery couple across waves at him as they open the café for the day. Dried sea lavenders above them, eternal love. Overhead, birds plop on the power line and the cables quake. Mark's heart trembles. </p><p> </p><p>"Donghyuck," Mark repeats. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for avoiding you like that. You don't deserve that. Thank you for, for being patient with me. Can we—can we—can we talk? Like later? Maybe before we close. Like around 6 p.m.? Or if you're not available then, it's okay! Maybe next time." </p><p> </p><p>"It's fine, hyung." Donghyuck shrugs. "And sure. Yeah. 6p.m." </p><p> </p><p>"Good morning, by the way," Mark says all of a sudden. "Ah…I'm sorry."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck chuckles against the back of his hand. Then he points behind Mark, towards the studio. "I'll see you later, hyung." </p><p> </p><p>Mark nods. "See you later." </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Mark thinks of Donghyuck the whole day. While binding roses of different shades—red, orange, peach, coral, light and dark pink—with a twine hugging the stems, and while wrapping them in kraft paper tied in another twine. A bouquet for an anniversary. While speaking with clients for their wedding, as they flip through portfolios, as they choose which love flowers best speaks to them. Mark thinks of Donghyuck.</p><p> </p><p>When the marigold sunlight laces through the window and across the floor, and 6 p.m. is almost here, Johnny leaves earlier than usual as he's promised Mark. "I'll hang out at the studio and pretend I'm there for Ten," Johnny says. "Which is sorta true. But anyway. Good luck, buddy." </p><p> </p><p>Mark paces the shop for a while once he's alone. Then he removes his apron and folds it on the table, patting the pouch where he has kept Donghyuck's sketches. They are in his apartment now, in a box. "Why did I fold this…" he mumbles to himself after remembering that he does not need to fold the apron. He takes the apron from the table, unravels it, then he ties the neck strap as he shuffles to the backroom. He hastily hooks the apron then comes back out.</p><p> </p><p>Mark unrolls the sleeves of his shirt. Unclasps two buttons down. Then rolls the sleeves again, up to his elbow. Then buttons his shirt again, leaving the top two buttons free. "Oh my god," he whispers.</p><p> </p><p>Mark remains in front of the doorway to the backroom, just a few steps forward, ahead of the counter and the cooler. He recalls the way Donghyuck smiled yesterday. Then all of Donghyuck's smiles, like different shades of blooms: his smile in the morning when he greets Mark and Johnny; his smile when he gets the reaction he wanted from teasing Mark; when he's proud of his design and tattoo; when he receives flowers; when he laughs. </p><p> </p><p>The door clinks.</p><p> </p><p>Mark holds his breath.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck enters, head low, one hand deep in the pocket of his jeans. Crown of head, honey brown melting into wisteria purple. The door shuts. Donghyuck steps forward, rolls his shoulders back, the sun honey flowing down his leather jacket. He looks up. And then he pauses.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck is gaping at Mark's feet. </p><p> </p><p>Mark snaps his head to the ground. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh, shit." </p><p> </p><p>Seedlings surround him. </p><p> </p><p>In a split second they grow and blow into yellow daffodils like stars popping up against the glow of cloudy skies. Yellow daffodils, an answer to love. Suddenly another ring of seedlings spring up around the daffodils, and then they instantly flourish into tulips. Red tulips as red as cheeks. But before the other buds open, another circle of seedlings hops around the tulips, and immediately they develop and unfold into red chrysanthemums. Layers and layers of ray florets. Around the mums jumps another wreath of seedlings, which, in a snap, blooms into orange California poppies, lithe petals blending with the spill of the golden hour. Red tulips, love's confession. Red chrysanthemums, I love you. Poppies, hope. </p><p> </p><p>"Um," Mark utters.</p><p> </p><p>"Whoa. Hyung, what the—" </p><p> </p><p>Another round shoots skyward. </p><p> </p><p>They mature faster. The moment they break free from the floor they rapidly unfurl into full blooms. Another girdle of daffodils. Soon, tulips appear around the daffodils. Then the mums. Then the poppies. Then the daffodils. Then the tulips. Mums. Poppies. Daffodils. Again and again. More and more. Looping around the previous ones. Blossoming over each other.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god…" Mark mumbles to himself, can't move.</p><p> </p><p>The flowers reach the backroom, the counter, the cooler. They take shelter underneath the table, hugging its legs. They lean against the whitewood shelf, the white display cubes, the walls. Donghyuck steps backwards. The blooms approach him. Poppies. Daffodils. Tulips. He freezes, as red chrysanthemums grow right over his feet. </p><p> </p><p>Then there is a garden of yellows and reds and oranges bathed in the gold of the sun.  </p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry, Donghyuck, oh my god. I couldn't make it stop! I'm sorry, I—"</p><p> </p><p>"Hyung! It's fine," Donghyuck says, looking around him. </p><p> </p><p>"I'll call Johnny." Mark feels his pockets, but his palms flatten against his jeans. "Uh. I think my phone's in the backroom. I'll—what the fuck!" </p><p> </p><p>The daffodils near Mark's Converse leaps off of the floor by itself. And then new daffodils sprout underneath them. </p><p> </p><p>"What the fuck?" </p><p> </p><p>The tulips follow, skipping out of the floor for the new blooms. And then the mums. Then the poppies. Bouncing in the air as more flowers pop through the floor. Daffodils. Tulips. Mums. Poppies. </p><p> </p><p>"Mark hyung…" </p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry! I've been, I've been keeping all of these in. For like a year. Oh my gosh. At least the mums and the poppies. I've been holding them in. For that long."</p><p> </p><p>"The hell are you saying!" </p><p> </p><p>The new daffodils over Mark's feet suddenly vault upward. And then newer daffodils emerge. More daffodils. Followed by the tulips. The mums. The poppies. Daffodils. Tulips.</p><p> </p><p>"Yo. What. The. Fuck."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck cranes his neck. "There's fucking more?" </p><p> </p><p>"I'm really really sorry!" </p><p> </p><p>"What to do? What to do? I don't have my phone with me, either. Hyung. Maybe, can you maybe calm your nerves? Calm the fuck down?"</p><p> </p><p>"Donghyuck, it's not <em> that </em>."</p><p> </p><p>"What?" </p><p> </p><p>"It's—" More flowers continue growing underneath the other flowers. Blooms keep darting up in the air and then falling on the others. Shooting blooms. Donghyuck has his brows raised at Mark. Mark says, "Orange roses mean desire."</p><p> </p><p>"Huh? Why the fuck are you telling me that?"</p><p> </p><p>"The orange roses! That I…sprouted before you did my tattoo. They mean desire." </p><p> </p><p>"Oh. Oh! Oh…"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah…" Mark chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. </p><p> </p><p>"How about these—" Donghyuck squeals when a tulip hits his hand. "How about these flowers then?" </p><p> </p><p>"Um. Well. Yellow daffodils, answer to love. Red tulips, uh, love's confession." Mark pauses for a moment to breathe, then scrunches his eyes shut and quickly says, "Red chrysanthemums I love you poppies hope." </p><p> </p><p>Petals tickle Mark's knuckles as though encouraging him to open his hands, and so he unclenches his fists, and then blooms slide into his palms. When there is still no response from Donghyuck, Mark opens one eye, then the other.</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck is still. His shoulders are up, rounded. His face, hidden in his palms. Flowers embracing most of his legs. Then he drops his arms to his sides, fingers sending ripples to the blooms. "Woo!" he exclaims, fanning himself with the flap of his leather jacket. He slaps both hands against his hips and lets them rest there, shifting his weight on a single foot. </p><p> </p><p>There is a sea of yellows and reds and oranges rained with marigold sunlight. That's when Mark realizes that it has stopped growing new blooms. The table, the display cubes, and the whitewood shelf are buried in flowers. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck nods at him and says, "Come over here."</p><p> </p><p>"Dude, why me. <em> You </em>come over here."</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck gapes at him. "Okay! Let's both—" He whips his arm towards himself then towards Mark, back and forth, and then starts moving forward. </p><p> </p><p>"Alright." Mark begins trudging through the flowers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeats as he steps on some blooms, trying not to press his feet too much. </p><p> </p><p>They wade through the blossoms. Stems scrunch beneath their feet. With Mark's every sorry, Donghyuck giggles and giggles. As they get closer, they reach their hands towards each other, laughing. The shop, filled with laughter and flowers that flutter with them. </p><p> </p><p>"Whoa there," Mark says when Donghyuck staggers. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck's arm swings and he wobbles and then he completely goes out of balance. Mark grabs Donghyuck's elbow, his other hand attempting to reach for Donghyuck's waist, but Donghyuck, squealing, falls on his back, taking Mark with him.</p><p> </p><p>They fall with a light thump. </p><p> </p><p>Mark raises his chin. "Oh gosh. Is your head okay?" </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. It's soft," Donghyuck says. </p><p> </p><p>Mark drops his forehead on Donghyuck's chest, then bursts into a fit of giggles, and Donghyuck giggles with him. Their bodies tremble, and Mark feels Donghyuck's heartbeat. Mark lifts himself up on both hands, palms flat against daffodils and tulips. </p><p> </p><p>"It just dawned on me," Donghyuck says. "That I should have just opened the door. And got out." </p><p> </p><p>Mark laughs. "Holy shit. Yeah." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck pouts, avoiding Mark's eyes.</p><p> </p><p>He lies under Mark on a bed of blossoms. Arms relaxed on both sides. Hair scattered. Forehead exposed. Warm under the ribbon of golden sunlight. The only lilac among the yellows and the reds and the oranges. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm really, really sorry I panicked when you confessed," Mark says. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck closes his eyes, pinches his nose bridge as he shakes his head. "Ah…you were an idiot." </p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry!" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck rests his hand on his stomach, his eyes elsewhere. "I didn't really plan to blurt <em> that </em> out that day. I was caught in the moment." He shrugs. "By the way, I kept the flowers that you gave me. All of them. Ten hyung taught me. He helped me dry and preserve them." </p><p> </p><p>"Really? Seriously? Wow. Wow. Wow." </p><p> </p><p>Mark glances outside. The bakery café, the vinyl thrift store, the pavement, the power lines, all drenched in butterscotch. He remembers the hanging dried sea lavenders at the café, eternal love. Johnny told him dried flowers are like tattoos, <em> there </em> for however long you want to keep it, could be forever.  </p><p> </p><p>When he looks down, he catches Donghyuck gazing softly at him. Blushing as though a flushed ranunculus would bloom on his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>Mark dumbly says, "Can I take you out on a date?"</p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck scoffs. "Duh." </p><p> </p><p>"Cool. Would you ink me again?" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck hoops an arm around Mark, then with his fingertip he pencils a line along Mark's back and says, "Cornflower along the spine?" </p><p> </p><p>"Yeah." </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck lays his palm on Mark's waist. "I have a full leg tattoo, by the way." </p><p> </p><p>"What?"</p><p> </p><p>"I've caught you a lot of times looking at my thigh, hyung." </p><p> </p><p>"Wait what." </p><p> </p><p>"Full leg tattoo." </p><p> </p><p>"Full leg tattoo? Huh. Can I kiss you?" </p><p> </p><p>"Of course!" Donghyuck grins. </p><p> </p><p>With both hands Donghyuck pulls Mark down by the waist, till Mark is perched on his elbows. He slides his palms along Mark's sides, then slides them over Mark's shoulder, hooking his hands around Mark's neck. Mark sinks lower until the distance between their lips is as thin as a sheer ribbon. Donghyuck playfully puckers his lips. A light touch. Mark pouts. So Donghyuck draws him closer by the nape, and then their lips melt onto each other, pressing onto their softness. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck, like his birth flower, iris, the flower that brightens riverbanks and pond margins. With sepals that fall, like wisterias that cascade, like asking to be caught onto a palm. So Mark catches him. </p><p> </p><p>Their lips part, heads tilt to the side. </p><p> </p><p>Drunk in love.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>💐 BONUS SCENE HEHE 💐</p><p> </p><p>Jasmine-white curtain billows overhead, and a soft lace of light pours into the four corners of the bedroom. To Mark's left is a redwood wardrobe. To his right, the wall garlanded with framed dried flowers—one frame is warm with the orange roses arrangement; another is brimming with the black blooms; another frame is beaming in yellow; one is dreamy with the purple flowers; then there is the frame blazing in red.</p><p> </p><p>Mark lifts his head up, locking eyes with Donghyuck. </p><p> </p><p>The curtain waves above Donghyuck, and the sunlight ripples along Donghyuck's bare chest and his spread legs. His boxer shorts flow over his thighs. Mark plants a kiss just above Donghyuck's ankle, where a tattoo of verbana flowers is inked in black and grey. </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck has a full leg tattoo of flowers that bloom in June, his birth month. From the drooping bell-shaped foxgloves on his upper thigh, down to the verbanas like an anklet. Heart-shaped Asian bleeding-hearts on his calf, roses on his knee. Columbines, phloxes, delphiniums, geraniums. Mark feels the daisy above Donghyuck's knee. Touches the lavenders on his shin. The clematis on the back of his thigh. </p><p> </p><p>"Would you like to explore my garden of June blooms?" Donghyuck whispered to Mark's ear when they plopped down on the bed as white as calla lilies. </p><p> </p><p>Mark whispered back, "Are you sure it isn't paradise?" </p><p> </p><p>Donghyuck said, "You're so corny, hyung." But he was smiling. </p><p> </p><p>Now Mark is looking at Donghyuck again, a hand right on a tattoo of columbines above the verbanas. Donghyuck's head on a pillow, but tipped sideways by his knuckles. </p><p> </p><p>"Get over here," Donghyuck says. </p><p> </p><p>So Mark crawls towards Donghyuck, presses his palm on the cotton of Donghyuck's boxer shorts, right on the hip, fingertips curling on the waistband. </p><p> </p><p>"We've got all the time in the world."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://twitter.com/__madlife">twitter</a><br/><a href="https://curiouscat.me/__madlife">cc</a> </p><p>i have to admit my mind was a cluttered mess when i wrote this so if there's something inconsistent or whatever, my apologies!!! idk why ao3 keeps adding space after every italicized words... sorry about that i'll edit that...someday hehe</p><p>also most of the flower meanings are from korean sites, so it might be different from the western ones or anything that would come up if u would google them in english</p><p>thank you for reading!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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